Pris Campbell: Among other Journals and Poetry Collections, Pris Campbell's free verse poetry has been published in Poems Niederngasse, MiPo Publications (print/digital/radio), Boxcar Poetry Review (her poem in the May 2007 issue won the issue's peer award), The Dead Mule: An Anthology of Southern Literature, In The Fray, Empowerment4Women, Tears in the Fence and Thunder Sandwich. She has two chapbooks, Abrasions and Interchangeable Goddesses, the latter with Tammy Trendle. In addition to Sketchbook, Pris has published her haiga/haiku in Simply Haiku, Haigaonline and Moonset. Raised in the Carolinas, she has lived in the midwest, Hawaii, New England and now lives in the greater West Palm Beach, Florida with her husband, a spoiled dog and a cat who sleeps on her rough poetry drafts. Formerly a Clinical Psychologist specializing in developing and running treatment units for people with chronic mental illnesses, she has been sidelined with CFIDS since 1990.

Catboat In Blue

Redon created me,
splashed me, gaff rigged
in proud pomegranate,
across his blue canvas sea.
Waters swirl over my stern
where my name bobs in gold.

An obscure painting,
known only by few.

But Redon, my love,
magician with the sensual brushstroke,
lover who dressed and caressed me,
you vaporized; were called
by sirens to other seas.

You did not take me.

Patrons shuffle by,
whisper of my rare, windblown beauty,
try to decipher the name on my stern.
Was there a secret love? they wonder.

I sail this sail that will never end,
flutter my pennant to their compliments,
cavort in the dancing waves.
I was his love, his lady, his spark,
my rigging yearns to scream,
but I keep Redon's secret,
as I slice through the cerulean deep.

 

 

Degas' Ghost

En pointe. Center stage front.
Her tutu is a plumed chrysanthemum,
delicately balanced on dual stems.
She traces the air with pale fingertips,
as if to memorize it as woman—
not the swan she soon will become.

We flocked to see Nureyev that night,
expected to grow damp with rapture
from fierce Neapolonic leaps,
head tilted cockily in the fury
of his futile heroic dance.

We only saw her...
This flower. This reluctant swan.
Degas white, pinned
under a dimming spotlight.
Fluttering and lifting.
Dipping and fading.
Then, abruptly, the vacant stage.

 

 

\

 

Writer Page 01